


A Wolf's Bounty

by TalesOfOnyxBats



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Alternate Universe - Elf, Blood, Bounty Hunters, Elves, F/M, Werewolf/Elf - Freeform, Werewolves, baavira week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 12:59:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19357537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TalesOfOnyxBats/pseuds/TalesOfOnyxBats
Summary: Baavira Week, Day 2: Royalty. The alliance between werewolves and elves is a delicate one. Oftentimes the wolf is tasked with grim jobs. Not that Kuvira has any qualms about a good hunt.





	A Wolf's Bounty

She sniffs the air, his scent perfumes the forest. He smells of fear and anxious sweat. A horrible stench really, but one that she has grown used to after having induced it so many times. She’d take the smell of blood to it any day. 

 

Kuvira sticks to the shadows, maneuvering carefully between trees without so much as an indicative crinkle. Unlike he; she can hear him so easily it is almost painful. He is clumsy with fear, stumbling about like a child just learning to walk. 

He breathes so heavily that she doesn’t have to mask her own.

 

She stalks up behind him, quietly. Slowly.

He hasn’t given her much of a thrill, none of the adrenaline rush that she craved. So she creates some entertainment for herself, allowing herself to be noticed. The man turns and his eyes grow large. He lets out a shout and she lets him run. 

 

She lets him dart between the trees. But she doesn’t let him go far at all. With a devious smirk she crouches and pounces. Claws dig into biceps that don’t do the man any good against her. He screams. He curses. He spits in her face, she hates when they do that. And here she thought that she was the animal.

 She has half the mind to give his throat a good bite right then and there. But he is wanted alive. 

More or less, she decides. 

She offers his stomach a deep slash. One that he wouldn’t have came to happen had he gone down with only kicks and screams. 

 

The slashes are crippling enough so she doesn’t waste her sedatives. Instead she hoists the man up and binds his arms. “Walk.” She demands. The moon is still high. Even so, she knows that her pursuit has lead her rather deep into the woodlands. Her lip curls into a slight snarl as she pushes him onwards. He is going much too slow for her liking and she begins to wonder if he is doing so on purpose. Perhaps he knows that her strength waynes with the moon. 

He has to know, it is common knowledge amid human and fae folk alike that wolves rise with the moon--especially with it so full as it is now.

 

Kuvira grows tired of his stalling, intentional or not.

She pauses to dig through her pack, fishes out a rope, and puts the pack back on, opting to wear the pack itself on her chest. With it out of the way, she hoists the man over her shoulder with a scoff, ignoring the blood as it gushes against her pelt. She has done this to herself. 

 

She secures him to herself with the rope, hunches down, and takes off.   
It is the part of the hunt that she likes the most. The running, tearing through the ground and kicking up dirt and rock as she navigates the darkness. Bounding around pine and ancient elm as the night wind smacks her face. 

It is exhilarating. 

Almost enough that she can ignore the mans blubbering wimpers. 

 

**.oOo.**

 

Baatar drums his fingers against the arm rests. He isn’t a particularly patient man. That is why he has tasked Kuvira in particular. The woman is deadly and efficient, better than the best of men who question his decision to put a woman in charge of the hunt. But tonight she has keeps him waiting. He picks at the remains of his food; a luxurious dinner made up of fluffy bread, a cut of elk meat, and a platter of plump and vibrantly colored fruits. It does little to squander his dissatisfaction. 

 

“Can we get you anything else, your majesty?” Squeaks a spindly halfling serving girl. Between her pixie blood and her elf blood, she ought to be a nimble thing. Instead she lacks all grace and does nothing to help his mood in fumbling with silverware and apologizing in that high-pitched squeak. 

 

“You can either fetch my wolf for me or you can get me some peace and quiet.” He says with an icy edge. 

 

The half-elf vacates the room with quickness startling quickness. He picks up a lush looking green grape and pops it into his mouth. He barely gets to chewing when the door opens once more. His agitation spikes before giving way to confliction.

 

Kuvira strides into the room with the outlaw draped over her shoulder. Her fur is matted with sticky and clotting blood. Fresh blood. With horror he notices that she has trailed blood all over his pristine crystal floors. He cringes, thinking of the expensively tailored carpeting, he would have to call the wizard's apprentice to cleanse this mess on time for the masquerade-banquet tomorrow.

 

Baatar doesn’t know if he should greet her with an, “I said bring him alive.” Or a, “you’re late.” The man stirs so he chooses the latter. 

 

“I work on my own time, your majesty.” She replies, dropping the man at his feet. Baatar winces as more blood marrs the ground. 

 

“We eat in here.” He hisses, motioning to the blood.

 

Kuvira shrugs and nudges the captive with her foot. “He’d be dinner to me if you didn’t want him.” 

 

Baatar bunches his face in disgust. He hates the wolves, savages, the lot of them. He is reminded generously when he catches sight of the blood on Kuvira’s maw. She gives him a vicious smile that only highlights his repulsion. She knows that it makes him uncomfortable. 

 

“Clean yourself up.” Baatar commands. He wants her to at least look presentable by the morning. 

 

Kuvira holds out her hands. “I’ll have your pay after you bathe.” Baatar mutters. 

 

“Bathing is not part of the job, unless you want to throw in an extra trinket.” 

 

“How about this?” Normally he would lean in closer and sofly speak into her ear. But the smell of violence and gore keeps him distant. “Tidy up and you can accompany me to bed.”

 

Her smirk returns and he can see a mischievous glimmer in eyes that are very much human. 

 

“And you…” Baatar trails off. The man at his feet wimpers. “I’ll have to decide what to do with you.”

 

**.oOo.**

 

She wanders into the bathroom, taking care not to track anymore blood around the castle. The elf kin stare at her. They are still unsettled at the sight of a wolf in their territory. They are right to be afraid, the truce between their kind being so recent and so delicate. She can tear the lot of them apart, and she can’t say that the urge isn’t enticing. Elf meat is her favorite kind, the taste has a unique sort of tang. 

 

They shy away from her, stealing away into the nearest rooms, the bravest of them cross to the other side of the hall and avert their gaze. She supposes that she could shift, they aren’t so squeamish when they can pretend that she is human. But she enjoys the intimidation that she radiates. 

 

Kuvira finds the bathroom. It is every bit as absurdly extravagant as she knows Baatar for. Every inch of the place from the tub to the toilet is made of polished jadeite and smoky quartz. They are crafted to look like the trees surrounding the palace with a touch morganite to shape crystal flowers. These flowers create a circle around the bathtub along side emeralds cut to look like grass blades and, sunstones and rubies shaped like toadstools. 

 

Kuvira rolls her eyes--her own aren’t so unnecessarily elaborate. She rolls her head back and begins the shift. It is the worst part of the night, but with so many years she has grown accustomed to the pain of it. It is always easier to provoke the shift on her own than to have the sun drag the wolf out of her. 

 

In a series of snaps and cracks, her snout shortens. Her bones shift and shrink, muscles contorting and convulsing with a sharp and unpleasant ripplings. She grips the edge of the sink and grits her teeth as her body rights itself. When the transformation tapers off she shakes her head, to clear the fuzz and hangs it low, breathing ruggedly. 

She looks up. No wonder Baatar had been so squeamish. Her reflection shows a complete mess; hair askew and knotted wildly. She has gotten the outlaw all over herself, his blood coats the lower half of her face, is smeared across her neck, and trickles down her chest. Splotches spatter the spots on her shoulder and back where she had bound him to herself.

 

She best get to her bath before the crash. 

 

Already free of clothing, she sinks herself into pleasantly cool water. The water turns coppery with mud and less savory things. She has to drain the tub thrice over before it remains clear. She picks up a jasmine shampoo and rubs it into her hair. 

It is too posh for her tastes, but she knows that Baatar likes the scent. 

 

**.oOo.**

 

With his prisoner patched up and awaiting his trial, Baatar rummages through his treasury. He wonders if he should dock his wolf’s pay for being so late. He picks out a nice looking gemstone, hoping that it will appease her. It reminds him of why he hates her kind so vehemently. They are  greedy as the dragons but with the spending care and decor and fashion choices of common dwarves. On top of it all they are barbaric beings. He snarls, why would he give her a gemstone? He can’t imagine her appreciating the beauty of it.

 

He almost puts it down when he sees her in the doorway. A tall majestic woman, with heavily sun touched skin and vivid green eyes. Thick, long, black hair is fashioned into a tight braid. She has found the nightgown he has set out for her and she fills it nicely. Her petite figure is a stark contrast to bulky build of the wolf’s. She can pass as an elf, though she hasn’t a drop of it in her. 

 

She drops herself onto his bed and beckons him forward. Forgetting his former disdain, he presents the jewel to her. She picks it up and turns it in her hand. Though she doesn’t make a remark that reminds him of the wolf, she reaches for her bloody pack and tucks the crystal away. Baatar’s lip twitches at the sight of it. “I shouldn’t award you for being late, but I’ll have a new pack for you by the week’s end.”

 

Kuvira rolls her eyes. “Elves are so delicate.” She falls back on the pillow with her arms behind her head. 

 

She makes it plenty hard to pretend that she is an elf just like he. 

She lets a silence fall between them as she slips her hand under his nightshirt and trails her finger over his chest. She presses her lips to the crook of his neck. 

 

Her touch is surprisingly gentle. He takes her hand, it is so small. With his other hand, he brushes over her hair. She gives him a soft smile.

Suddenly it is easy to seperate the wolf from the woman.

Suddenly it is easier to accept that he loves her. 

At least the part of her that isn’t a beast. 

 

He returns her kiss. 

 

**.oOo.**

 

Baatar has invited her to the banquet, but she can’t even pull herself out of bed. This time around, the crash is horrific. She has made herself delicate and venerable. Moving at all is a task. Usually she can carry herself to breakfast the next day. It isn’t a normal day. She is weak. Weak and tired. 

 

Her power has a price. 

It is true for the entire pack. 

For the species as a whole. 

 

She dreads the day when humans and elves alike figure out the nature of her abilities. The more powerful the wolf is, the weaker the human form. She is the alpha, she has the most power in transforming. For it, all of her strength is sapped by the wolf. 

In current, she is remotely powerless. 

She resents it.

She fears it.

 

It leaves an opening for omega wolves to uprise. She has gotten herself a trustworthy pack, but she still finds comfort in spending her mornings amid the elves. There is a sense of security in being in the palace. 

 

She finds the strength to curl herself up on her side.

 

She feels the bed dip. Baatar looks particularly splendid this morning. Tall and regal and adorned in his best finery. His hair is slicked back in a suave black sweep. Eyes of the same shade as the vines in his garden look her up and down. Sitting as tall and proud as he is, he looks powerful. She supposes that, for an elf, he is pretty well built. Of course this is strictly comparative. Even so, he has a sturdier build than she presently has.  

 

He puts a hand against her cheek. “Are you sure that you don’t want to come to the masquerade? I have an outfit waiting for you.”

 

Kuvira sighs. “As much as you like to pretend otherwise, I am a wolf. I sleep now and wake later…”

 

“Night is when the ball is in full swing.” He raises a brow. “I’ll call for you then.”

 

Another drawn out sight, “fine.” 

 

 “Please come down without fur.” He requests. 

 

She nuzzles her head against the pillow and gives a dismissive hand gesture. “I won’t make any promises.” 


End file.
